Seed
by mystiri1
Summary: One-shot. It's Aya's turn to cook, and Yohji plays with his food. Yohji/Aya. Yaoi


_**Warning:** This story contains mentions of violence and male/male sexual interaction. If either of this offend you, go read something else._

* * *

"Did you get everything on the list?" Aya asked. Of course, being Aya, it came out as more of a demand.

"Yeah, I got it." Yohji waved an indolent hand and settled down at the table. It was Aya's turn to cook dinner, and he intended to watch. No matter how many times it happened, some part of him was always surprised that Aya could do something as domestic as cook. And he wielded a knife with the same lethal ferocity he did his katana. One day, Yohji would ask him if he really thought the poor carrots were going to attack him, but he'd do it at a much safer distance than the two feet away he was now.

Aya was rummaging through the shopping bags, removing ingredients, checking them against his mental list. Yohji wasn't offended; he'd forgotten stuff before, and double-checking things was just Aya's way. Anal retentive with occasional outbursts of homicidal intent.

That thought gave Yohji a brief image of the terror Aya could inspire working as a taxation accountant, and he stifled a snicker just as Aya pulled something round and red out of the bag, looking at it in puzzlement.

"This wasn't on the list."

"That's mine," Yohji said, holding his hand out. He'd picked it up on impulse, because he didn't see them often in the supermarkets. Aya deposited the pomegranate in his hand and went back to emptying the bags. Yohji plucked a knife from the butcher's block on the counter, and sliced the leathery fruit in half, exposing the hundreds of seeds inside.

It had been years since he'd eaten a pomegranate, and as he stared at the deep red seeds he found himself thinking how much they looked like droplets of blood. It wasn't something he'd ever thought before, and he shook his head in irritation, plucking one of them from the white flesh that held it and placing it between his teeth. He bit down and it burst, an explosion of liquid, and he tried not to picture blood splattering on walls. He'd liked pomegranates the last time he'd eaten one, but he hadn't been an assassin then.

Hadn't he read a love poem once, with pomegranates in it? Something about the colour of one's lips, or something. It would be a carnal image, that deep red on someone's mouth, but it didn't appeal to Yohji. He preferred a pale dusky pink, a colour that went with incredibly pale skin. The colour of Aya's lips. And you'd need make-up to get that kind of shade, anyway.

His gaze went back to his lover, who had things neatly arranged around a chopping board and was now busily shredding cabbage, knife flashing as it hit the board in quick, repetitive motions. He pictured Aya wearing lipstick, lips wrapped around his cock, and swore. Aya would never wear any such thing.

The knife paused, and Aya looked over his shoulder. Yohji dropped his gaze back to the halved fruit, a little voice in his head whispering, _He'd wear it if he had to for a mission_. It wasn't like he could ask Kritiker for a mission that required his lover to wear make-up.

Although now he looked at it, the pomegranate reminded him of Aya even more. Perhaps lips wouldn't naturally be that shade of red, but Aya's hair was. Impossible red, but Yohji could vouch that it was his natural colour. And the pale white flesh was only a shade or two whiter than Aya himself. Even the leathery exterior, mimicking Aya's favourite mission coat, although in the wrong colour. Yohji liked Aya in leather.

Yohji plucked another seed and put it between his lips. The resemblance to blood bothered him less, because in his mind Aya and blood were inextricably intertwined. The number of times they returned from a mission, only to reach for each other before they'd even cleaned themselves off, looking for some reassurance that this wasn't all they were. And Aya – Aya was beautiful when he fought, graceful and fierce and strong. Strange as it was, although Yohji sometimes had doubts and dark thoughts over his own killings, he could never feel the same about Aya. Something in Aya seemed made for battle, and now that it had been woken, he didn't think it would ever rest.

So Yohji would be there to remind him there was more to life than just killing, and that he didn't regret at all.

He closed his eyes as his teeth closed on the seed, feeling the flesh give way. As it burst, he could taste the juice inside: sweet with just a faint bite to it. And he bit down as he reached the kernel, too, the bitter taste sharp and startling after the sweetness that had preceded it. Because Aya was never easy.

"Does everything make you think about sex?" Aya's voice interrupted his musings.

He opened his eyes to see that the knife had stopped in its predations, and Aya had turned around to watch him instead, a dark amusement gleaming in violet eyes. Yohji raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

"You have that look on your face, the one that says you're thinking about sex," Aya clarified.

"Hmmm." Yohji pushed the fruit aside, losing interest when faced with the real thing. "Not everything makes me think about sex." He stood, moving to pin his lover back against the counter with his hips.

"Yohji, I'm cooking dinner," Aya protested as his lips descended. But it didn't stop the redhead from returning the kiss, with all the passion his cold exterior usually hid.

"But you do," Yohji murmured against lips that were just the right shade to match pale skin. "You always do."


End file.
